Page 20 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 7

Oliver considered the men sitting around the table. They were attending a meeting of The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park in a secluded building on Albany Street. It was the first such gathering in over a month. Introductions between Rett and the rest of the group had already transpired. Now they were waiting for their president, Damon Cranston, the Duke of Chellenham, to call the meeting to order.

Across the table, Shinwell and Linton whispered together, casting glances at the other men. Shinwell stood. “Before we get to business, I wish to make a proposal.”

“By all means,” Damon remarked nonchalantly. “You have the floor.”

“I do not care for the direction this gathering is taking. Charitable works? We are called The Rakes. Yet, at our last meeting, you proclaimed that this would be the main direction of the group going forward. It is not what this assemblage was founded on and is not why I joined. There is time enough when I am in my dotage to give to people in need. But for now, I want to pursue all the delights life has to offer.”

A murmur of agreement came from a couple of the men.

“Honestly, this is all a crashing bore,” Shinwell continued, his tone conceited. “You recently married men have suddenly become pillars of the community, steadfast and faithful. I thought a few of you would still indulge in amatory adventures. But no. You are all devoted husbands or husbands-to-be. Chellenham, your change of character boggles the mind. You were one of the most notorious rakes in this city—you and Watford. No one makes such a transformation in a matter of weeks or months. You are both living a lie.”

Growls came from Damon and Watford, and Allenby laid his hand on Damon’s arm to halt him from vaulting out of the chair and physically attacking Shinwell. Or so Oliver surmised, for Damon had a murderous look. The arrogant fool viscount was correct on one matter. It had been quite the conversion that had taken place in Damon. And Watford, too, for that matter. Oliver welcomed it. Falling in love could change a man. Who would have thought it? There was no doubt more to it than that, but it is Damon’s business. And Watford’s.

“I propose that the purportedly virtuous men form your own group and leave those of us who wish to be rakes to continue with the decades-old tradition,” Shinwell concluded, giving them a self-righteous smile.

You could hear a pin drop in the cavernous room.

“That will not happen,” Damon ground out. “If you and others wish to splinter off, have at it. The name remains with us.”

Watford nodded in agreement. “As the last original founding member, I also say the name stays here. You have no claim on it. And do not endeavor to take it, as you do not want to cross me or any other here. We are not so staid as you believe.”

“You only adopted the Rakes name recently. What do you care?” Shinwell shot back.

“Officially, that is true. But the sobriquet has existed for years. It stays with us,” Watford bellowed.

“I do not see why we cannot do both,” Gregory McFadden said. “There is more to life than never-ending debauchery. Especially in this enlightened age of industrialism and aestheticism.” McFadden was a recent prospective member, a successful businessman with his fingers in numerous pies, including newspapers and railroads.

“Not in my life,” Shinwell retorted. “What do I care about industrialism or the great unwashed of London, including snotty-nosed by-blows living on the streets? Really, Chellenham? A home for foundlings? And you will be taking in some of these bastards into your home? What a disgrace. But the bigger scandal is you claiming these brats as your siblings. You’re as mad as a March hare.”

This time, Allenby did not hold Damon back. The enraged duke was out of his chair, pushing Shinwell against the wall in the blink of an eye. Damon jammed his forearm into Shinwell’s neck, causing the viscount to gasp and wheeze.

“Utter one more word of insult, and I will crush your windpipe. Gather your things and leave now. Never return.” Damon stepped away, breathing hard. Oliver was shocked at Damon’s sudden burst of implied violence but felt it warranted.

Shinwell coughed, rubbing his neck. “You are completely deranged. Come, Linton. Let us leave this pathetic group to their reformist lives.”

Allenby turned toward Linton, who stood next to Shinwell. “Really, Rome?” he questioned his new stepbrother.

Linton shrugged. “I agree with Shin. I have better things to do with my time than raise money for orphans or whatever good deeds you have planned.”

Viscount Tolwood stood.

Damon laughed cynically. “You always were a sniveling dog, always following others. Good riddance, Tolwood.”

“I thought you were seeking a bride?” Asher Colborne, Baron Wenlock asked Tolwood. From what Oliver understood, Wenlock, Tolwood, Allenby, and Damon had known each other since their early days at school.

“Well, I am, Ash,” Tolwood replied meekly. “But I say, why not have a little fun as I do?”

“McFadden?” Shinwell questioned.

McFadden brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve, imaginary or not. “I am not interested. I have a business reputation to protect and can do that well enough here. Besides, I don’t like you, Shinwell. Not from our first meeting. You are a vain, self-seeking arse, and I want no part of you.”

Well spoken. Oliver could not agree more.

Shinwell scowled. “Tensbridge? Considering your do-gooder family ties, I presume you will stay with these boring converts of pious philanthropism. You know, I have never seen you darken a brothel’s door. I do not trust a man who doesn’t indulge.”

“And I don’t trust a man who indulges too much,” Oliver retorted, keeping the bulk of his anger under tight control. “My vices run more to gaming, not that it is your concern. I am staying here. And so is my cousin.”